Unreliable Certainty
by Links6
Summary: One reality shifts to another like bad day of Channel Surfing. A look inside Joker's own world...


Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any of its deranged villians, characters or related themes.

AN1: Takes place sometime before and between Under the Red Hood and The Dark Knight :) Let's call it AU just to be sure ;)

AN2: Just to be clear, all my fanfics DO have some measure of OOC-ness within. So, BE WARNED!

AN3: One theory about the Joker is that he's literally beyond the point of actual insanity. That his memories and actuality changes so often that he isn't actually _aware _of anything at any one time. This is just a fun little fic to show that, PLUS he's my favourite character... heheheh ;) So... his reality is an unreliable certainty. Because, it is A reality... but not essentially one that he's _chosen_ or _actually in_.

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_**Unreliable Certainty**_

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It's a little like a trifle pudding, I guess, toots.

Six, three, possibly ten layers of psycho-sandwich compressed into a six-foot handsome bloke.

And it's not a question of containment, more like that split-second before a cluster bomb rips a hole in five years' worth of engineering achievement.

Or, maybe it's like that moment when you realise that the universal law _is_, in fact true, toast always lands with the butter-side down.

Or, it's the moment when you see the realization in old Batsy's eyes when you've got him pinned down by the throat and he knows you're about to test the colour of his carotid.

I turn my blade around, deciding to be traditional about my slitting hit throat. When I dive forwards I hit the railings, the only thing standing between me and over a thousand litres of boiling chemicals. The mask over my face is already drenched in sweat, I'm sure I've been wearing it all night. I can hear shouting all around me, the boosters of one of Batman's many transport toys.

I'm sure _this _little soirée isn't all my fault.

Even worse, I feel like I'm forgetting something important. Something that happened just a few hours ago. Something horrible, but something so buried beneath layers of memories that it's unfathomable. I yell at my savior, who's bursting through the ceiling glass, to save me. But, I'm running towards the first exit that catches my eye.

Two seconds later, I'm over the railings, trying to reach good ol' Batman's hand. The searing liquid somehow feels hot and cold at the same time. What a Jacuzzi.

But, when I wake up I'm sitting on my spongy, mouldy garbage bag somewhere in one of the _many _alleys in Gotham. Maybe Gotham. Maybe it's my hometown and the city siren is just a visiting county. That would be such a treat. The men in blue visiting my humble hammock-home.

The streetlamps and smell is so similar to Gotham it might even make me cry. If he could.

I reach into my holster, my fingers running over my piece. The metal is just as cold as it should be. It feels heavier in my hand than I hoped. Which means, my shindig last night didn't go as well as I expected.

On my right a stray dog's scrounging through the fancy French restaurant take-out boxes someone threw out. It's not that difficult to lift the muzzle and with one trigger pull muzzle the stray permanently. Only problem is, only a small red flag fires harmlessly from my gun. The 'BANG' makes me want to strangle the damned red material. The air-powered shot rings through the alley, scaring the beetlejuice out of the border collie.

How ironic. Kid's play instead of nine mil. I'm laughing before I even realize I'm left alone.

But, when I stand up, I'm face to face with Batman. Gotham Tower. That's where we are. One hundred and twenty floors of mindless repetitive excitement. Sixteen million square meters of paperwork. Eight-hundred forty-three Exits. More than sixty four hundred thousand small pane windows.

I grab old Batsy by the cape, a chuckle of surprise came from me as a reply when his collar sends voltage tingling down my spine. It's like a good cup of coffee. It wakes you up in the morning.

My purple gloves are stained with my own blood, not his.

That's even worse.

I'm not sure how handsome I look at the moment. I can see the white of my make-up smeared on my prestine pinstripe violet jacket. I'm so glad I chose that colour. It reminds me of pansy's. _I'm not a pansy. _But I do love them. Purple and yellow little smiley faces all lined up in a precession.

But I'm a smiley face with a gun and laughing gas.

Batman's not too happy. He never smiles, but I don't think that means he's depressed. Especially not the way he's taking his passive aggressive rage out on me. Let's be a bit more realistic, it's more like _active _aggression.

With both fists raised he's dancing around me like a flamenco dancer. I can just _see _him in a red dress, castanets instead of _bat_-arangs. Of course, he must still wear the mask. That's just part of tall, dark and handsome charm.

Blocks, punches, kicks. I draw blood from my old friend from a punch and I rinse off the blood from my razor under the tap. I stare at my reflection in the mirror for a few minutes, surprised my make-up and Glascow Smile hasn't found its way to the corners of my mouth yet. What a shame. Maybe it's about time.

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_**Thanks for reading!**_

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Please let me know what you think, I'd love some feedback!__


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